Hold On by Toni Martin
I should have noticed when my wedding ring fell out of my pocket. I should have heard it strike and plink on the concrete floor in Big Willie’s dressing room behind the bar when I slung my jacket over…
I should have noticed when my wedding ring fell out of my pocket. I should have heard it strike and plink on the concrete floor in Big Willie’s dressing room behind the bar when I slung my jacket over…
Do I “heart” this? My finger hovers over the outline of a heart beside a photo of a curly-haired woman grinning, her arms wrapped around two tan dogs. It’s a Friday night, a few months after I moved to…
Penny Guisinger and I met when we each served on the board of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance in the early 2010s, and I became a fan of her nonfiction soon after. Her work captured complex realities of…
Kimberly King Parsons, whose sparkling debut novel We Were the Universe is a USA Today national bestseller, is serving as our guest judge for the CRAFT 2024 First Chapters Contest. From the outset, Associate Editor Rowena Leong Singer was…
The nurse processing my intake at the psychiatric hospital looked like the kind of person with whom I would strike up a conversation while waiting for a drag show. Everything about her seemed to match, down to the color…
Deesha Philyaw, acclaimed author of The Secret Lives of Church Ladies, is graciously serving as our guest judge for the CRAFT 2024 Short Fiction Prize. In this interview conducted over email, Editor in Chief Courtney Harler asks Deesha to…
We were agents of change. We wrote about how hugging, laughter, and kissing can lengthen your life. Warned that toxins in commercial cosmetics seep surreptitiously through nails and pores. We advocated ditching pesticides and gardening with beneficial nematodes instead.…
After three gin martinis, my mother-in-law spits out her teeth. “You’re a cannonball with a credit card,” she hisses. Her dentures glisten like pearls in her palm. Never, she likes to remind me, did she foresee her sweet son…
By Nick Almeida • If you had grown up in my house, “You’re dollaring me to death” would forever echo in your head. The phrase is one of my mother’s favorites, inextricably linked to any requests for small amounts…
Later, you’ll claim there were warnings. Unusual bird calls. That double rainbow you snapped for Instagram. A knowing gleam in the eyes of the hibachi waitress. To make sense of a thing is to make it your own, and…
In 2016, I received a spammy text message declaring there were hundreds of beautiful Asian women waiting to meet me. Right away this offer made me laugh. I guess it was supposed to be sexy, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was actually really scary. I mean, hundreds of beautiful Asian women? That’s too many!
The first draft of this story was very different. Though the theme of vengeance was still there, I wrote it in second-person point of view, from the perspective of a man being terrorized by a mob of beautiful Asian women—a “you” observing a “they.” I was getting my MFA at the time, and I submitted the draft to my workshop, where it got a lukewarm response. I remember one of my classmates voiced a concern that the story wasn’t doing enough to disrupt the sameness of the beautiful Asian women. They lacked agency and distinctness. I agreed with her, but didn’t know how to fix it.
I put the story away and forgot about it.
Fast-forward to 2021: We’re one year into the COVID pandemic and anti-Asian hate crimes are on the rise. I thought back to that old story and it just clicked. I switched the point of view to first-person plural, direct address—a “we” talking at a “you.” With that change, the piece became more confrontational, more playful, and more political. The women were speaking for themselves, celebrating their collective rage.
I went back and forth on whether to cut the last paragraph. It’s on the nose in a way my writing classes had trained me to avoid. I was emboldened to keep it in part because of the ending to Marilyn Chin’s story “Moon,” another Asian-American revenge tale, in which the narrator breaks the fourth wall to explain the moral of the story and basically threaten the readers: “And you don’t know what I can do. You don’t know what is beneath my doing.” It was also important to me, in a piece that’s on its face very silly, to capture a more serious idea: the sense of false security that comes from believing if you only do X, Y, or Z, you can prevent acts of violence from happening to you. But you can’t. That’s the story’s despairing message, reversed and projected outward.
TESSA YANG is the author of the short story collection The Runaway Restaurant (7.13 Books, 2022). Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, The Cincinnati Review, Joyland, Foglifter, and elsewhere. She teaches creative writing at Hartwick College where she is at work on a novel. Find her on Twitter@ThePtessadactyl.